


like something to mend

by Steve



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24194659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Hawke is hurting. Fenris notices. Fenris always notices Hawke, but he rarely has any idea what to do about it.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	like something to mend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SouthernContinentSkies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/gifts).



> Featuring a mostly purple mage Hawke.
> 
> Set, of course, a while after "All That Remains" in Act 2.

Fenris appeared in the doorway of Hawke’s bedroom a half-hour past midnight.

Hawke tried very hard not to think about the last time Fenris had visited the estate so late. They hadn’t spoken about that night in the months since it happened, not once, but it used to occupy Hawke’s mind constantly. It was difficult to ignore the broken, ugly pieces of his heart when the man who did the breaking was still one of his dearest friends, after all, staring at him from across a game of Wicked Grace night after night.

Now, now, Hawke would give anything to be broken-hearted and brooding over Fenris again. Anything would be better than the yawning, numb _nothing_ that had spent the past weeks slowly hollowing out his chest.

“Breaking and entering, are we?” Hawke said, rolling over to face him. “Like a handsome thief in the night. You’ve been spending far too much time with Isabela.”

“Bodahn let me in,” said Fenris, crossing the room to loom over him.

It was rare that Fenris ever got to loom over him. It was really only possible because Hawke was still horizontal in bed, buried under a crumpled, expensive pile of silk sheets Leandra had purchased somewhere in Hightown, what felt like a thousand years ago, when she was nothing but proud and euphoric to reclaim her childhood manor, picking out furnishings that would befit the family's reinstated titles.

Rising from this bed at the moment felt like an enormous, impossible task. And his four broken ribs had little to do with it.

Fenris studied him in the low lamplight. His sharp, steely eyes tracked the gaunt lines of Hawke’s face, trailing down to Hawke’s left side, where he was most injured. Fenris’s eyes gleamed and settled there, honing in as if he were only analyzing another enemy, seeking out their weakspots before cleaving them open with his greatsword.

“Aveline mentioned you were injured on the Wounded Coast today,” said Fenris. “She said that you refused to see Anders for healing. That you would take care of it on your own.”

“Well, of course,” said Hawke. “I may not be quite as experienced with healing magic as Anders is, but I can—I can handle a few scrapes and bruises, thank you very much.”

Fenris reached down, prodded Hawke’s side with cool, clinical hands.

Hawke flinched so badly that a fresh, burning flower of pain bloomed through his ribs, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping or wheezing or sobbing like a child.

“That seems to me to be a shade more serious than ‘scrapes and bruises’,” Fenris said drily.

“All right. You caught me.” Hawke winced, opened his mouth to say—he didn’t know what. Maybe, _I’m sorry_ or _Fuck off now_ or _Why are you here, Fenris? Why are you here when you never mean to stay?_

Instead all that slipped out of his mouth was an awful round of coughs wracking his body, making him groan.

He clutched at his ribs—in small part to soothe the pain, in greater part to cling to it as the relief it was.

“Hawke. _Hawke!_ ”

Rough, familiar fingers snapped around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his ribs. Gently, too gently.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris murmured. “I misjudged just how badly you’re wounded.”

“I’m not _wounded._ ”

“Hawke,” he said again. He sat on the edge of the bed, ginger, careful not to jostle him. “Why are you not healing yourself as you promised Aveline you would?”

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut. Then opened them again. He couldn’t bear to look away from Fenris’s face for long, not when he was _here_ , visiting him in the dead of night of his own accord. Watching him with open concern in his gaze.

Born from pity, but still. But still.

“My magic is tapped for the day,” Hawke lied. “I spent too much of my considerable energy warding off those Tal-Vashoth. They’re hardy sons of bitches, you know.”

“It’s not just today,” Fenris said stonily. “You’ve been picking fights on the Coast every afternoon for weeks now. Kirkwall may run out of bounties soon enough, at the rate you’re going.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me,” said Hawke, coughing. Blood and bile rose in the back of his throat. “Clearing the Wounded Coast of bandits and slavers. Now that would be quite the feat, wouldn’t it?”

Fenris shook his head. “The problem is, I am beginning to suspect you haven’t taken care of your injuries after a single one of these battles.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d be dead by now, if that were true.”

Fenris arched a brow, his hand twitching like he was about to reach out but thought better of it.

“Is that the idea, then? Doing this until you meet an early grave?”

Fenris said it with no trace of judgment, no reprimand.

Hawke shook his head. Bit down another terrible cough.

“I’m not trying to _die_ , Fenris.”

“Then what?” he said, voice flat and hard. “Are you punishing yourself? Do you believe this is atonement, somehow, for a crime you did not commit?”

Hawke swallowed.

What could he say? That feeling the sharp, burning ache of a broken bone, of his pounding heart, of his body desperately trying to keep itself alive—that feeling those terrible things was far better than feeling nothing at all, than that _terrible numbness_ which overtook his senses every time he walked by Leandra’s room?

Could he say that he still wondered why Fenris turned his back and walked away that night, the memory of his lips burning across every inch of his body? That he wondered if it was because he was a _mage_ , and at first he hated Fenris for it, hated he couldn’t separate Hawke from the people who gave him those lyrium scars, but now he was starting to understand Fenris more and more? With every passing day, he felt the magic spark at his fingertips, and he saw Malcolm, and the sister he couldn’t save, and the brother in templar’s armour who wouldn’t look him in the eye, and Leandra, _Leandra,_ his mother’s mangled, blood-soaked body in Quentin’s lair—

Hawke had made Varric and Gamlen deliver the news to Carver, after. After. Hawke couldn’t bear to see the look on his brother’s face: the accusation he knew would cut him to the bone because it was so very earned.

“Hawke.”

A cool palm landed softly on Hawke’s forehead, sweeping the hair off his face.

It occurred to him he could perhaps admit all of the ugly thoughts twisting his mind to Fenris and more, and Fenris would understand. But shame choked him, stole the words from his lips.

“I’m all right, really,” he mumbled instead, leaning into the cool touch of Fenris’s hand. “I promise.”

“I will not pretend to understand what you’re going through,” Fenris said softly. “But know that I am here. I am.”

 _For now,_ said an unkind corner of Hawke’s mind. He did not give voice to it.

“There’s not much to do for your ribs if you will not use your magic,” Fenris continued, “except letting them rest. Are you suffering from any open gashes, anything that needs to be stitched or could be infected?”

“No,” he said truthfully. He _had_ dealt with some of the damage his body had incurred over the past weeks. Just enough to keep himself on his feet and fighting.

“Very well,” said Fenris.

He withdrew his hand. Hawke mourned the loss, but it hurt no more than the rest of his beaten, aching body.

Fenris didn’t instantly leave like he’d expected, though. He remained sitting on the bed, staring down at Hawke, lamplight reflected in unreadable eyes.

Then his face softened, something flickering across his expression, the twitch of his lips. Something Hawke didn’t dare name.

“What can I do?” he murmured. “Please. Tell me.”

 _Stay_ , he thought. _Please, stay. Just tonight, and tomorrow, and every night after._

It was too pathetic even for him.

Even so, he reached out and seized Fenris’s hand, knuckles whitening.

“You know what I want,” he croaked.

“...Hawke.”

Fenris didn’t yank his hand away. But he didn’t come any closer, either.

Hawke deflated. “I’m sorry.”

Fenris shook his head. And pulled his hand back, achingly gentle. As though he might break him, if he moved too quickly.

He reached up and ran his fingers through Hawke’s hair again, the back of his knuckles caressing his forehead. Again, and again, and again.

He stayed, his hand warm against his scalp, for as long as Hawke could evade sleep.

When morning came, he woke up alone.


End file.
